


five feel-good eighties movies

by earthbellamy (samssalvation)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Humor, I hate myself, Modern AU, Smut, Sorta I guess, Teacher Bellamy, WOW SPOILERS HUH, like you didn't see that one coming, or i guess some lame lame attempts at humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-13 10:19:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4518126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samssalvation/pseuds/earthbellamy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>bellamy hasn't had the best day. clarke decides to fix that by showing up at his door with eighties movies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	five feel-good eighties movies

**Author's Note:**

> first smut. ever. _ever_. hence it will be terrible (just as a warning).
> 
> (but seriously.)

"I can't believe she sent you over here."

Clarke stood at the doorway, messenger bag slung over her shoulder and a look of confusion coming over her features. Bellamy held the door open at arm's length, taking in the somewhat-dishevelled girl standing before him. He himself was only clad in a black tee and a pair of old jeans, clearly expecting a night in by his lonesome.

"She said you needed cheering up," Clarke said slowly, readjusting the strap of her bag. The action pushed the loose sleeve of her grey t-shirt off her shoulder. Bellamy blinked sharply and forced himself to focus on her eyes.

"Those weren't my exact words," he said. He remembered the text conversation he'd had with his sister a mere fifteen minutes ago: _Got any friends with loose morals and a free evening?_

Of course, his sister had caught on right away: **_You didn't get the teaching job, did you?_**

_No. So I repeat: any friends willing to make a series of bad decisions with me tonight?_

**_Not a chance. You don't need a one-night stand, you need a friend._ **

He'd thought she'd been joking. At most, he thought she'd closed the texting app and went back to her date with Lincoln. Never in a million years had he thought she would seriously consider his request, much less decide to act on her own advice. _Especially_ not with Clarke. Not after what he'd told Octavia last week—

It was only once Clarke cleared her throat that Bellamy realized he'd fallen silent for nearly half a minute. He started. "I think I'm good now, actually."

He began to close the door, but Clarke's hand shot out and caught it before he could. She pushed it back open, fixing him with a friendly glare. "Uh-uh. No way. I packed up five feel-good eighties movies and four bags of microwaveable popcorn and hauled ass to get here, and there's no way you're just going to turn it down."

Bellamy eyed her, hesitating.

" _Five feel-good eighties movies_ ," Clarke repeated.

Bellamy wasn't sure whether it was the force of her glare or the undisputed promise of _the Breakfast Club_ that made him let her in, but it seemed like between one blink and the next she was shutting the door behind her and making her way across the small apartment to the kitchen. Bellamy followed at a short distance, rubbing his hand over his hair with the air of someone who'd been given all the raw materials to fix his problem but still couldn't figure out the instructions.

Clarke tossed her messenger bag down onto one of the rickety barstools that Bellamy had found at a garage sale. Without looking to her companion, she went over to the fridge and flung it open. "Please tell me you have beer. I couldn't fit any in my bag."

"There's a case of some cheap stuff on the bottom shelf," Bellamy said absently, thinking to himself that this was a very bad idea. Clarke's skirt had hiked up on her walk over from the local university and the pleated edge fluttered very close to danger. When she moved to bend further, Bellamy forced his gaze away, shoving his hands in his pockets. He crossed the room to plug in the TV—left unplugged when not in use because the shoddy wiring in the ancient building had a habit of short-circuiting anything more complicated than a refrigerator if left on for too long.

Clearing his throat in an equal attempt to clear his mind, Bellamy called out, "What else did Octavia say?"

There was the clink of glass and the fridge door slammed shut. Bellamy suddenly felt like he could breathe again. He heard Clarke's progress across the wooden floorboards and the thud of the messenger bag hitting the moth-eaten couch behind him. Without warning, Clarke's pale arm reached over his shoulder, a beer dangling from her fingers. Bellamy snatched it away and tried to slow his heart, which was pounding unreasonably hard after the glancing contact.

He faced Clarke, who used the corner of the coffee table to pop the cap off her beer. "She said . . . you didn't get that job at the high school."

Bellamy looked at the floor and nodded, lips tight. "Just wanted to know if she told you."

Clarke made an offhanded wave, but when Bellamy looked up, he could see the genuine sympathy in her eyes. "Forget it. That was the first place you applied to. There are plenty of other schools, and you are extremely overqualified."

Bellamy snorted a laugh, then copied her technique and took a long sip from his beer. "You're not wrong."

"Of course I'm not. Who do you think you're talking to?" Clarke answered her question for herself. "Clarke Griffin, that's who. And I'm not about to let you stay hung up over this."

Bellamy raised an eyebrow at her. The nerves were slowly fading, and he started to think that maybe he'd been overreacting. "So when did you get your degree in motivational speeches? Because I think you're extremely _underqualified_."

She smacked him lightly on the shoulder. "Shut up, asshole. I'm being a friend, just like Octavia said I should be."

Bellamy doesn't know whether to curse or praise his sister's name. "Are you sure that's all she said?"

Clarke narrowed her eyes at him, beer bottle halfway to her lips. "Yeah, I'm sure. Am I missing something?"

"It's nothing." Bellamy slung back the remainder of his beer—it had gone down fast. Too fast. He was more nervous than he'd thought. Good thing he'd gotten into the habit of drowning his sorrows, so he barely felt the buzz from the alcohol. He gestured at Clarke's bag. "You said something about eighties movies?"

Clarke set her bottle aside and moved over to her bag. As she rummaged through its contents, Bellamy glanced over at her beer to see that it was nearly empty. Without wanting to read too much into it, he found himself wondering if maybe she was a little nervous too. They'd been friends ever since they'd gotten past that awkward best-friend's older brother phase, but since she'd started her second year in pre-med, they'd spent less and less time together, just for lack of spare time in itself.

Bellamy didn't have any more time to wonder, because Clarke proceeded to toss a DVD case at him over her shoulder. He caught it one-handedly on reflex.

" _Ferris Bueller's Day Off_?" he questioned, holding the movie at arm's length.

"I said feel-good eighties movies. What did you expect?" Clarke returned. She faced him again with the rest of the movies in hand. "Then _Breakfast Club_ , _Dirty Dancing_ , _Sixteen Candles_ , and _Say Anything._ "

"So when you said 'feel-good', you meant romance." Bellamy tried not to smile at the appalled look on Clarke's face following his remark. He dodged the DVD case, whirled like a throwing star at his head, and _Say Anything_ hit the wall behind him.

"How is _Ferris Bueller_ a romance, smartass?" She stalked over to him and grabbed the movie from him. With an air of affected disappointment, she pushed him in the direction of the kitchen. "Now shut up and get more beer."

He moved off, thinking that more beer was exactly what he needed. Maybe if he got drunk enough, he would forget the conversation he'd had with his sister the week before. As it was, especially with Clarke less than ten feet away, the memory remained fresh at the forefront of his mind _._ A simple, honest, confused confession that had been years in coming on his part that had apparently come as no shock to Octavia.

_I think . . . I think I'm in love with Clarke._

The realization had come out of the fact that when Clarke announced the other day that "that douchebag Finn Collins" had asked her out. His heart had clenched at the thought—not just because he didn't like the guy (because he really didn't), but because the thought of Clarke dating someone filled him with a sense of dread. No, scratch that—the thought of her dating anyone . . . but him. Which certainly posed a problem, because in all the years he'd known her, she had never once expressed even the slightest interest in him.

The blast of static emanating from the TV shocked Bellamy back to the present. He headed for the fridge, but he glanced over at Clarke in the living room, who was wrestling with the DVD player. "You need to switch the input feed."

"I already did." She cracked open the movie case and pointed an accusatory finger at Bellamy without looking up from her work. "I blame your bad attitude."

"What bad attitude? This is my 'first job opportunity in a month down the drain' attitude." He grabbed two more beers and returned to the living room. Clarke had set herself down cross-legged on the worn Persian carpet and was fiddling with the cords at the back of the player. She accepted the proffered drink wordlessly.

Bellamy moved to help her, but she batted away his hand. Her tongue peeked past her lips, and a small crease formed between her brows. She seemed intent on finishing the job herself. Which was unfortunate, as Bellamy sorely needed a distraction from his observations.

Still, he knew she wouldn't listen to him, so he opted for taking a seat on the couch and staring pointedly at the wall.

The silence persisted for a few concentration-filled minutes before Clarke uttered an annoyed expletive and set the player aside. "It's useless."

"You sound surprised," Bellamy replied, a humorous tone slipping into his words. "You forget that I'm a broke-ass history major with a teaching degree that amounts to essentially nothing."

"How could I forget that?" Clarke gave him a look steeped in sarcasm. "You never shut up about it."

"Are you calling me a whiner?" Bellamy replied, faking effrontery. He kicked his feet up onto the coffee table and took a sip of his beer, eyeing Clarke sidelong.

She stared at him, then pushed her gold hair out of her face and shrugged. "Would you prefer I lied?"

"What, and deny you the glorious satisfaction of being right?" Bellamy snorted a laugh. "Not a chance, Princess."

Clarke flopped down on the couch beside him and kicked out her legs, catching him in the ankle on purpose. "I hate that nickname."

Bellamy had known it when he said it, and so did Clarke, so he didn't say anything. Instead, he knocked his knee into hers and took another long sip of his beer, then placed it on the table in a belated attempt to spend the evening sober.

There was something in the air between them, a sort of unspoken something that Bellamy couldn't put his finger on. It hovered there for almost five straight minutes of silence before Clarke shifted in her seat and drew breath to speak.

She spoke quietly, sincerely. Her fingers toyed with the label on her bottle. "I'm sorry you didn't get the job, Bell."

Something about her tone made him reply in kind. "Yeah, me too." He uttered a short laugh. "But hey, at least it gives me a reason to spend time with you."

She glanced at him sharply. Bellamy didn't look at her for the fear that she might recognize the sentiment behind the words. "What does that mean?"

He shrugged, trying to play it off. "We never see each other anymore. I miss you." He looked over at her, trying to read her expression. After a pause, he said, "That can't come as a surprise. You're one of my best friends."

"Friends," she echoed. She set down her beer on the coffee table with a thud. Something shifted in her eyes, a flash of—disappointment? Bellamy had to be imagining it. After all, if she was disappointed, then it must mean that—

"Well, I mean, you know," Bellamy stuttered, instantly back-tracking. Her face was impassive. He licked his lips and opened his mouth to try again.

Suddenly, before he could say anything, Clarke reached over and pulled his mouth to hers.

For a moment, Bellamy was too stunned to move. He even forgot how to breathe. The one single coherent thought he could form was, _Clarke Griffin is kissing me._

But the kiss was over as soon as it had started.

Bellamy blinked at Clarke, eyes wide; she looked away, cheeks flushing pink. Her fingers, now free of the beer bottle, instead tangled together as though meshing them together would help mesh together the words in her head. "I'm sorry. I-I shouldn't have—"

Bellamy didn't let her finish her sentence. He turned her face back to his and kissed her again, hard. She made a noise of surprise against his lips, but she didn't hesitate as he had before. Instead, she moved closer, returning the kiss with a passion that mirrored his. Their lips moved against each other in perfect harmony, as though they'd done it a thousand times before.

Then Clarke mumbled something against his mouth and drew back again. Her eyes met his, inches apart, clear as November frost. "We shouldn't be doing this."

"Why not?" Bellamy asked softly. Almost reflexively, his hand reached out to brush the hair back from Clarke's face, before he brought his hand to rest on her cheek.

Clarke's eyes flickered shut for a moment, feeling the soft pressure of Bellamy’s fingers against her temple. But she blinked again with a deep breath. "We're drunk."

"A beer and a half is not drunk," Bellamy replied. "It's appropriately uninhibited."

"Bell, I know why you texted Octavia." She didn’t sound annoyed—in fact, she sounded somewhat amused, which Bellamy felt was perhaps a little funny in itself, given the situation. “And I know what this is to you.”

Bellamy tried to keep his emotions from his face as he felt his heart thud to a stop. _Octavia told her what I said_ , he thought. _She knows_. When Clarke started to speak again, he expected her to say something along the lines of, “I don’t want you getting any ideas,” or, “I can’t do this with a friend,” but Clarke—always one for surprises—took it in another direction entirely.

She bit her lip, then said in a rush, “I can’t just go there with you and have that be the end of it. I can’t . . . I just can’t. Because I kinda love you, Bell.”

The words took a moment to settle in, ringing in Bellamy’s stunned ears as he tried to sort them out. Something about the whole situation made it take ten times longer to sink in—she couldn’t have it be the end. She had to have more. She _loved_ him.

The shock that accompanied the revelation was only bested by the relief that shot through Bellamy’s chest. He collapsed back against the couch with a gasping snort, which transformed into a full-body laugh. The pieces fell into line. The world had transformed from a sixty-watt bulb to the golden light of noon-day sun. _Clarke Griffin kissed me because she likes me. She_ loves _me._ The realization was somehow the most serendipitously funny thought he’d had all day.

Clarke, however, was silent as she watched him with a coldly-judging eye, until Bellamy realized what it must have looked like to her. He hastily cleared his throat and grabbed her arms and pulled her close. She refused to meet his eyes.

Breathlessly, he said, “Look at me, Clarke.” Then again, when she didn’t, more insistently. “Clarke, look me in the eyes.”

She did then, eyes glassy. _Oh, God, she’s pissed._

Bellamy shook his head, trying to dispel the angry tears pooling at her lashes. “Clarke, I love you.”

“Bellamy Blake, if you mock me again, I swear to God—”

“Clarke.” Bellamy put his forehead against hers, as though the simple contact could prove the truth of his words. “ _I love you_.”

She stared at him, then shook her head slowly.

Bellamy let out a breathy laugh. “I knew you were stubborn, but I didn’t think you were _this_ stubborn.”

“You’re pretty ornery yourself, I’ll have you know,” she retorted. The words were meant to be scathing, but her voice betrayed her. A low note of laughter slipped past her guard, and they both heard it.

Bellamy didn’t give her another chance to try to reason her way out of it; he tilted her chin up and their mouths met for the third time. This kiss, though, wasn’t like the others. The first had been a kiss stolen, a fleeting touch of tentative lips. The second had been a bargaining ground, trying to prove a point without knowing what they were trying to prove.

The third. The third was the tide coming in to rest on the beach, the sun sinking into the horizon, lightning finding the ground at last. The third kiss was home and yet a strange new place, one neither of them had ever seen before but hoped never to leave. It was long, building slowly from their mouths until their hearts burned with fiery desire and their hands left hot streaks across their skin. It was messy and hot, and for a few minutes, all they could hear was the sound of their heartbeats and their rushed breaths.

Then Bellamy slid his lips from her mouth to her jaw, pressing kisses along it until he reached the soft skin below her ear. His voice was low as he said, “You have no idea how long I’ve waited to do that.”

“However long it was, I’ve been waiting longer,” Clarke replied. “Now are we going to do this, or are you going to sit there and make small talk?”

When all he managed to do was shake with laughter, she moved her hands up to her shoulders and pushed him backwards with as much force as she could muster against a guy who measured at least four inches taller than her. His back hit the couch cushions and Clarke made a satisfied noise at the back of her throat. With an ease that surprised them both, she straddled his hips, her pleated skirt splaying across his chest.

She settled down right on top of him, sliding against the hard proof of his arousal. Bellamy tried to move up to her, but she continued to press down on his shoulders. Then, slowly, she drew her hands back; they went to the hem of her shirt. Looking Bellamy in the eye, she commanded, “Stay.”

He did as she said, only able to watch as she drew her shirt up and over her head in a single languorous motion. After years spent at the beach with her beside him in a bikini, it wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen before, but somehow it was different this time. Seeing her not in a bikini top, but a black bra, edged in white lace, he was unable to stop his hands from sliding up her thighs to take hold of her hips. He pulled her against him even harder, suddenly cursing his decision to wear stiff jeans.

Clarke’s golden hair spilled over her shoulder and dusted against Bellamy’s cheek as she bent down to him. At the same time, he surged upwards, catching her mouth halfway and using a free hand to press against the small of her back and bring her closer. Clarke’s hands moved down his chest as they fell back to the cushions, aiming for the edge of his shirt but getting caught in one of the many holes lining the hem. The shirt was old—as Bellamy hitched her higher onto him, her finger slipped and three holes became one. Against his mouth, she murmured a brief apology. Bellamy’s response was to take enough breath to say, “Just rip the damn thing off already,” before he mouthed hot kisses along her neck.

Clarke didn’t hesitate for a second. Her finger dug in and pulled upward, ripping the shirt up to the shoulder. She helped to push it off his shoulders and onto the floor, and suddenly, her hands were tracing across his chest. Bellamy held her tighter against him, fingers nimbly going to the clasp of her bra and unhooking it with one hand. Clarke couldn’t help a small noise of surprise when it happened, giving Bellamy the opportunity to turn the tables—he pushed Clarke bodily back onto her side of the couch and settled himself between her legs.

Her heels hooked behind his back. Bellamy pulled back just enough to slide the bra off and away before returning to her. Bare skin pressed against bare skin. The tightness in his pants grew more impossible by the second.

Clarke felt it too, and grabbed one of Bellamy’s hand to guide it below her skirt. His fingers pressed against the wet fabric of her panties, pushing in just enough to make Clarke moan against his mouth. He traced the edge up and tried to tug them off, but his damp fingers slid against her skin. Impatiently, she went to help him, and Bellamy ducked out of the way as she literally threw the panties away with a muttered, “Fucking useless.”

“The hell I am,” Bellamy replied hotly, a grin appearing at his lips. Clarke’s own mouth was flushed, swollen from their kisses. He moved back to her, hands sliding up her sides until they reached her breasts. As Bellamy covered Clarke’s mouth with his again, she laughed.

“Then why do you still have your pants on?” She didn’t wait for him to answer; she hooked her fingers into his belt loops and pulled him up far enough to unzip them and push them off his hips. He took care of the rest, kicking them off brusquely. The pants were gone, but the pressure remained.

She clamped her hands onto his broad shoulders and pulled him back towards her. Her chest heaved; his mouth went to her breast and found its way to her nipple. His tongue flicked out—once, twice—as Clarke dug her nails into his skin and arched her back. With a force that was probably linked to the growing heat in the pit of his stomach, Bellamy maneuvered her down so that he was on top of her. His erection pressed against the wet between her legs through his boxers, and they moaned in unison.

“Take them off,” Clarke panted. She didn’t need to specify. She tugged her skirt up, rocking down against him as though he needed more convincing. “ _Today_ , idiot.”

“I could just walk away, you know,” Bellamy rasped, looking down at her. They breathed in unison, hearts racing. She was beautiful, laid out beneath him, and Bellamy wished he had enough control to kiss over every inch of her skin. But not this time.

Next time, though . . . definitely.

Clarke snorted laughter at his statement. “Liar.”

Well, she wasn’t wrong.

Bellamy’s fingers fumbled momentarily at the band of his boxers before managing to tug them off. They joined his jeans and Clarke’s shirt on the floor beside the couch. Then he lowered himself over her, and it took all his strength to hold himself back as he murmured, “I’m clean, in case you’re wondering.”

“But what about protection?” Her voice was husky with desire. She gave him a look—it was more of a challenge than a concern, because Bellamy knew the real question and he also knew the answer.

“I know you’re on the pill, Clarke,” he told her, prompting her to smile. He returned the grin before his hands went to cup her ass and he leaned down on top of her. Their noses brushed, lips dragging lazily across each other. Clarke caught his lower lip between her teeth and tugged at it, biting down just hard enough to cause a sharp sting of split skin.

“All right, smartass,” she murmured, opening her hips further and teasing the tip of his erection with the damp niche between her thighs. One of Bellamy’s hands slid down and into her, and she tilted her head back with a choked gasp. Another finger, and she strained against him harder. Her throat convulsed. Bellamy was unable to take his eyes off her as she arched off the couch, their bodies aligned perfectly.

Breathlessly, she pleaded, “Bellamy—”

He didn’t need her to finish her sentence. He pulled his fingers out and slid into her all the way in a single fluid motion. Clarke cried out in sharp ecstasy. For a moment, neither of them could do anything, but slowly, they moved together. Clarke buried her face into the nook between Bellamy’s collarbone and his throat, mouth open and sucking against the tender skin there. “Bellamy, please—”

Gradually, they slid into a rhythm, each thrust punctuated by a rush of breath or a desperate moan. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Bellamy still couldn’t believe what was happening, couldn’t believe he was lucky enough for it to be happening, but the thought soon fell away. There was only him, Clarke, and the ancient couch—which, in all honesty, he would probably have to get rid of after the abuse they were putting it through—suspended in space, far away from everything else. And suddenly he didn’t care about the shitty day, or the shitty week, or even the shitty month, because hey, Clarke loved him, and that was pretty damn good.

Slowly, the movement of their hips sped up, their breaths coming in quicker. Clarke moved her mouth up and Bellamy met it with his own in a messy kiss. Her hands were in his hair, holding him there, just as her heels dug in tighter into the small of his back. Then, like a dam breaking forth, Clarke came in an exclamation of fervent release. Bellamy followed moments later with a shuddering groan.

His shoulders shook as he let his head fall against Clarke’s chest. She hummed contentedly, her fingers brushing the damp hair back from his forehead before they moved to dance along his jaw. Bellamy listened to her slowing heartbeat through the rise and fall of her chest, content to stay there forever if he could. The air, however, was suddenly cool against his heated skin, and he let out a soft sigh as he adjusted himself and Clarke so that his back was to the couch cushions and she was curled up in front of him. With a sharp movement, he tugged the frayed quilt free from the back of the couch and dragged it over them.

Clarke pulled the end of it over her shoulders and pressed back against him, a small yawn escaping her lips. Bellamy tucked her head under his chin, wrapping an arm around her waist with an ease borne of years of subconscious imaginings. Their feet twined together beneath the quilt.

Even as Bellamy held Clarke in his arms, there was still a part of him that didn’t believe it. Even though he’d only said the words aloud to his sister last week, he had known how he felt about Clarke for a long time. But his feelings had settled somewhere between emotion and imagination, something based in real friendship but never a possibility in real life.

But this was real life, and here he was. He felt the swell of her chest as she drew breath, the echo of a heartbeat through her back, the line of bare skin between their bodies as they lay there together, interrupted only by the pleated skirt that they had somehow never bothered to take off. It was all real, and Bellamy couldn’t stop the smile from pulling at his lips at the knowledge.

They lay side by side in silence for a time, drinking in each other’s breaths and listening to the refrigerator’s hum. Clarke took Bellamy’s hand in hers and intertwined their fingers against her breast. Just as Bellamy was about to drift off, Clarke whispered, “Bell?”

“Mmm?”

She glanced over the edge of the couch to where her bag was hidden under the remains of Bellamy’s shirt. “We’re still gonna watch those eighties movies.”

His laugh rumbled deep in his chest, and he nodded, knowing she could feel it. “Of course, Princess.”

“ _And you’ve got to stop using that damn nickname_.”

He held her tighter and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. She sighed happily.

“Yes, Princess.”

**Author's Note:**

> so...at least i warned you at the beginning, right?  
> please comment and kudos, you know, let me know how it went.  
> if i don't get very much response in the next few days, i'll probably delete it (as a warning).
> 
> (edit: um yeah so i have no concept of alcohol consumption as is clear from this writing, so um. forgive me)


End file.
